Ticking
by chrysalis escapist
Summary: someone wants Stella for company, but who, and why? Mac/Stella and someone
1. Moments

**Disclaimer: I own neither Mac nor Stella, but that's okay, as long as I'm allowed to dream of them.**

**A/N: Sorry to all those who are waiting for an update of my other story, that one is not forgotten, but this one wanted out too.**

**Please don't hesitate to let me know what you think; you can make my day by reviewing, and I will reply.**

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He brushes down his uniform. No specks of dust are allowed to cling to it. He does it regularly, although he doesn't even remember when he last wore it. He's not even sure it still fits, but he keeps it anyway. Keeps it as a reminder that he once thought he was useful, that he once thought he could do something for his country.

Single flakes of dust are released into the air. He doesn't watch them sink to the ground, helpless as they are with nothing to hold on to. He doesn't want to be reminded. He puts the brush away, satisfied with his work. The uniform goes back on its hanger and back into the darkness of his almost empty wardrobe. It swings back and forth on the rail, back and forth like a pendulum. Before he knows it his arm shoots up to steady the movement.

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She's shaking her head, laughing at what he's just said. He watches her curls follow the movement just a tick behind, swinging back and forth full of life. The rhythm of her mirth resonates inside of him, comes up outside as a chuckle.

"We should do that more often." he smirks.

"What? Make fun of Flack?" she asks between giggles.

"If that's what it takes, yeah, but just laughing would be fine too."

This time her curls follow the movement as she nods.

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He sits in the dusk of his apartment, looks around at the dull place that has nothing to do but to wait. Waiting for someone to revive it, children maybe, splashes of color. He thinks of his dreams, of what he thought he could be when he was a child. Dreams that are now nothing but memories, still returning to him at night, tinged by the darkness of his reality.

He wakes with a gasp, torn from a dream by the shrilling of an alarm. His eyes scan the room for the source of the sound, then he remembers he doesn't have an alarm clock. He doesn't need one anymore, the habit of getting up early and living on little sleep was never broken.

He maneuvers his body from the couch and makes his way to the door, towards the recurring sound. He looks through the peephole, it's not her. He leaves the door closed, shuffles back to the couch, covering his ears against the penetrating cadence.

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Stella sees Mac standing outside the lab, the glass walls casting a luster over his body. She smiles at him and points down at the table, indicating that she's working on something. He returns the smile, lingers for a moment before he turns and walks away.

She reconsiders what she's looking at, mulling over possibilities in her mind. She finds herself being drawn to musing again. Looking at pictures of how a life ended she wonders how it began, and what might have become of it had not somebody decided to play fate. Young people die with dreams, old people die with memories, but there never is a right time to be torn from life like this.

She pulls away with a sigh, shaking her head. _Time for_…, the thought is suspended by the beeping of her pager. _No, please, not another case._ She reads off the direction and breaks into a grin as she finishes the message: lunch, now. She tosses her lab coat over a hanger and walks out, oblivious to its swinging behind her.

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He looks at the picture again, that moment of color in his place. Scans her face with his eyes, lets them rest on her smile. But that smile was not for him, someone else captured it, locked it into a picture, froze it into time. Suddenly the smile seems cold, forced. He has to turn away.

He doesn't remember why he picked her, he's not sure he ever knew the reason. Maybe it was just fate, maybe it was her name. Bonasera, the chance of having a fine evening before the night closes in. The chance to spend some time with her.

His eyes are drawn to her smile once more. He closes them quickly before the effect returns, imagines her smiling at him, a warm smile full of life. The kind of smile she had for that other ex-marine. The one he tore from the only picture he has of her, the one who was more fortunate than him.

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"That's beautiful, where did you find it?"

He recognizes her voice before he sees her reflection in the glass of the picture frame. He adjusts the frame, making sure it hangs straight before he lets go of it. Then he turns around to face her.

"What are you still doing here?" he wants to know.

"I asked first." she insists, slightly cocking her head, a smile lighting up her eyes.

"Okay," he gives in, "Danny had it, I asked him to get me a print. Now you."

"Well, actually I had just lost my sense of time over the case."

He pretends to believe her. This job has never had them working by the clock. They look at the picture he just hung up, of someone who was as dedicated as themselves but missed the right moment to step back.

"I'm glad we have this reminder of a happy moment in her life." Stella's thoughts travel back to their time with Aiden.

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He hesitates for as long as he can. But eventually he has to go outside; his cupboards are as empty as his wardrobe. Nothing to eat left in his place, nothing to drink either, but for that he could fall back on water from the tab, and has done so in the past. Reluctantly he shoves the sunglasses up his nose. He steps outside and is surprised by the darkness and the cold.

He realizes he has no idea what time it is, nor what day. He thanks an unknown someone for the creation of 24/7 shopping facilities. His steps fall heavy on the pavement as he makes his way down the street. The number of people he encounters doesn't give him a clue as to what time it could be. He hasn't been out for so long he can't recall what it's like.

There is a throng of people gathered around a spot he has to pass on his way. He thinks of crossing to the other side, but is too tired to put it into practice. He pushes through the people only to be stopped by a yellow tape. He looks up in dismay.

His heart jumps when he sees her, sees her bend over a body lying on the ground, sees her shake her head, tossing those lively curls, sees her lips move as she talks to someone. No frozen smile, no imagining, this is reality. It must have been fate driving him out tonight.


	2. Passing

**Thanks for the wonderful reviews, for putting this on alert; and a big THANK YOU to those who put this on their favorites list. You all made me very happy. I hope I can live up to the expectations.**

**To the general crowd: feel free to ste****p up any time and make me even happier.**

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He's there again, at the crime-scene, sunglasses appropriate now. The yellow tape is crackling in a stiff breeze, stuttering its message like an old radio. He sees a couple of officers standing around, making sure that people heed the signal. She's not there. He thinks of waiting, in case she returns later, sees one of the officers looking at him and walks on.

He marches down the street, somewhat in spite of himself. Another memory from a time that now feels like he has only dreamed it. Marching without thinking, despite exhaustion, beating time with your steps. He stands still, feels chilled. Colors are fading to the usual dusk of his apartment. He lifts his sunglasses, realizes he's casting a protracted faint shadow on the pavement. Another day, time marked by the sun, and he has seen it pass.

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Mac casts glances at Stella as they sit by the window, studying case-files. Her features, tight from concentrating on what she's reading, are slowly softened by the light of the evening sun. She feels watched and looks up, adding a smile to the effect of the sun.

"What?" she challenges him. Beams of golden sunlight seem to be caught in her curls.

"It's just…" he doesn't really know what to say, mesmerized by the moment.

Instead he reaches out, stops his hand in a shaft of light made visible by flakes of dust, dancing around his fingers now. Her smile deepens; her hand joins his in the dimming light. They watch each other gradually fade to grey, allow time to pass quietly.

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He's out again, doesn't know how long it's been since the last time. The yellow tape is torn, winding and hissing on the pavement. One end raised into the air, biting firmly into a pole. The wind is tugging at it, trying to release the pole from its death-grip, the resonance building up to a menacing rattle.

He realizes she won't come back. Still he circles the place, has no other landmark. Wandering around and around he spirals into darkness, unaware of the night setting around him. The thought comes to him that her name holds another promise for him. A star to show him the way, as it should be for a sailor lost on a stormy sea of hidden emotions. He searches the sky, shrinks into shudders when a freezing blue glow hits his eyes. Full moon, another month gone, a cold light shivers ghostlike over the houses.

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The cruel investigating lights are turned off; they have gathered all they need, allow a crime-scene to be mantled by a placid darkness. The moon braids its rays through the branches of trees. Specks of dim silvery light sway gently over the grass. She comes towards him, out into the moonlight casting serenity over her.

Without a word they turn, walk for the sake of silence, no destination. They fall in step, in their own thoughts and still thinking the same. He listens to the whispering breeze, watches the moonlight play with her curls.

"You're doing it again." she says, so softly he's not sure whether he has heard it or thought it.

Again there is nothing to say, but he knows no words are needed. She's watching him, too. With a nod he directs her attention to the body of water they have reached. The full moon is sinking into it, reflecting a dream of tranquility.

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He knows the place, knows exactly when to look up to see it. He's not sure why he still comes. A yellow knot is resting on a pole, like a butterfly moving its wings in the breeze. It begins to flap its wings, wanting to break free but caught on the pole, never to fly again.

Involuntarily he follows an imaginary movement towards the sky, flits from cloud to cloud, searching for messages in their shapes. All he sees are particles gathering water and banding together to form blank sheets. Resembling pages he's no longer able to fill with his imagination. Tired his eyes glide down again, come to rest on dark branches, only not dark enough. Rosy tips make him want to recoil. Another season begins, and he knows it's not his anymore.

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A vivacious little gust whirls across the crime-scene, in defiance of another body Stella is crouching next to. They close their eyes against the dust it playfully casts about, opening them charily when no more particles knock against their lids.

He finds his eyes drawn to her curls where rosy blossoms are nesting. She catches his glance once again, speaks to him through the sparkle in her eyes.

Standing before him she tilts her head slightly upwards and calmly waits for him to pick the blossoms from her hair. He's close enough to sense her reassuring breath brush over his face. He feels her relax under his touch, holding on to him only with a steadfast gaze.

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He comes closer, closer once again to this place of memories, no more dreams or hopes, just force of habit. Faded and broken wings hang from the pole, they crumble between his fingers. Nothing left to remind him of her, again no color in this street. He stumbles on.

Lost in his fatigue he drifts along the streets, washed around corners by forgotten thoughts. He finds himself in another place he has known. His eyes jerk up, away from the pavement, alarmed by a sound he recalls. He whirls around, tries to outrun it. The humming has already caught up with him. The rattle of snare drums raises the hairs on his neck. Cymbals seem to clash on his head. Clarinet notes wind themselves into his brain. The parade, another year since that day he would rather have forgotten. He paces towards the shelter of his home.

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They sit in silence, dealing with the necessary paperwork. Loss and grief are packed into rigid words, cases are closed, feelings are ignored. They exchange glances, each knowing why the other doesn't want to be here alone.

A drone pulls them towards the street. Voluminous notes bounce off the bass drums, roll along the pavement and knock into things. Air swooshes inside the triangle, escapes trilling like a bird. Molecules push and shove through trombones' bells, break free with a peal. A cascade of sounds builds up and washes down the street.

Colors float through the air, reverberating in their vision. She looks at him, recognizes the question forming in his eyes. He reads the answer in her smile. Nothing special, just a moment becoming so because it's shared.

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The sounds have followed him, he tries to cover his ears, but they are inside his head. Sounds that drag along with them unwelcome recollections, flashing them at him on every turn of his thoughts. He rumbles through his apartment, searching for forgotten memories covered in dust. He unearths his old radio, tunes into some forsaken station, too neglected for good reception.

He listens to the static hissing between meaningless crackling words, waits for it to drive the other sounds from his mind. Some words make their way to his consciousness, he lifts his head, realizes that fate is talking to him from that radio. He listens.


	3. Closing in

**Thank you so much**** for the wonderful reviews, also for putting this on alert, and the occasional kicks to 'update please' (feels good to know that people are interested in my work); and another big THANK YOU to those who put this on their favorites list. You all made me very happy. Again I hope I can live up to the expectations.**

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He listens, closely. Letters are trickling into his ears; he sifts through them, gathers meanings, breaks the code. Grains of sand fall into place, like pebbles to mark a path for him. He follows their directions. He falls in with the slide of pedestrians, unpredictable like moving sand.

The yellow tape greets him from the distance, waving at him in the wind. He steps closer to the bridge, relieved to see that she is there. He watches her hands glide swiftly over a still body, watches her hair flow in the breeze.

She feels a gaze washing over her, turns to Mac. It isn't him; he's studying a piece of evidence on the ground. It didn't feel like him, it felt foreign. She scans the background; behind him is a bus stop, people forced into statues of waiting. Only thoughts flow, and looks. She sighs, just a couple of people overcoming their boredom by watching others around them. She doesn't see them all.

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The radio mutters. Sounds coalesce into words. He takes note of the ones important for him. He sets out, joins the particles ebbing up and down along the pavement. They curdle around kiosks and vending stalls, he makes his way through.

The yellow tape is swinging between two signposts. Groups of students come to halts in passing by, scatter and re-form elsewhere on the campus ground. He was a soldier, he has learned to hide. And he observes her, follows every movement of her body over a body that won't move again.

She casts glances at Mac. There is this feeling again, she knows it's not him, but she wonders if he feels it too. She looks around, courses have begun, the mass of students has melted away. She scans the buildings, countless windows looking down at her, behind them countless eyes peering at anything, hoping for a distraction. She remembers a couple of her courses and professors and shakes her head.

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He waits, waits for the words that tell him where to find her. When they come he follows. His footsteps fall together with hundreds of others, stopping together with various others, the ever-grinding mass clotting at traffic lights.

He finds the yellow tape swaying like a string of dandelions. She's crouching down amongst several shrubs. Her fingers move smoothly over another body at rest. He feels a strange comfort seeing how she touches a fallen one. He's sure his choice was right.

Unnerved she looks up. That fleeting touch of a pair of eyes again. But Mac, as before, not looking. Uneasily she shifts around, studies her surroundings. A small café has spread a few chairs out onto a little bit of green. People sit there, drinking coffee, munching cakes, all in the face of a crime-scene, as if they were merely watching TV. She raises her eyebrows at them.

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He hasn't switched the radio off in days. It continues its stroboscopic outpour of words. He snatches the ones he needs, scrawls down an address. The usual mass of constituents rolls along the concrete, coagulates at the subway entrance.

The yellow tape is glittering in a shop's door. It wriggles under steady drops. The precipitation erodes his body; he tries to withdraw into the shelter of stones. He takes advantage of the window display, being able to see her inside without having to move closer.

Raindrops on the windscreen fragment streetlights into grains of gold; burst into fireworks when the car moves, glisten downwards when it stops. She follows the sparkle with her eyes like someone's seem to be following her. She looks at Mac; he's concentrating on the traffic. She wonders if she should say something, catches a glimpse of a huddled shadow outside. Probably just some poor guy who wishes he were in the shelter of a car too. She frowns at her overactive imagination.

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Another couple of words fixed on paper, another try. Another grain of sand in the mass pouring down the streets. A mass that constipates at a construction site. Impatiently he breaks away, walks between cars lying still like boulders.

He searches for a streak of yellow, sees the tape stretched motionless across a door. Fatigue begins to grate in his eyes, little particles of frustration. He finds a window, catches a glimpse of her in the darkness of another room in the back.

A web of bluish cracks splinters over the ice of white skin. A little girl who has never seen the sun. Locked up, neglected, and forgotten. Stella shivers, her eyes shine jet-black, glassy beads begin to form. She avoids Mac's gaze, it's not his watching that bothers her. She looks out the window, people on the other side. Where were those watchers when there was still time to do something? Time to spare a soul life in hell on earth.

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Wherever he goes, the other one is always there with her. Is this his fate? Did that voice from the radio ever mean anything else? Or was it just taunting him? Does fate smile or laugh at him? His thoughts begin to flutter and stall.

White noise freezes itself into his mind. Stabs of shiny icicles jar through his brain; a frosty hand takes hold of his heart. His eyes glaze over like a motionless body of water. He tries to fight it back, tries to ignore his body. Time has caught up with him. He stands still, like a clock wound down.

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Traffic has congealed. She doesn't realize her fingers are drumming a rhythm against the door as if they could pace up the cars with this motion. She feels Mac's eyes on her. She doesn't look up. The girl is still on her mind.

"I think I'd rather walk." she finally says quietly.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. No," she hesitates, "will you be okay?"

He nods, "Will you be?"

"Eventually." She gets out and walks away, turns to look at him from some distance.

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She allows herself to drift along with the current, hoping to dispel the thoughts that swoosh through her mind like a flock of pigeons, around and around.

He still stands, a rock breaking the ceaseless flow of pedestrians. She glides around him, brushes against his skin, feels like marble has just touched her. For a second she meets his granite eyes in petrified wonder.

He is so close. Stone awakens into motion, follows her path. He can feel the touch of her hand in anticipation.


	4. But fleeting shadows

**Thank you so much for the wonderful reviews, and the occasional kick to 'update please'. You all made me very happy; I love to know what my readers think. If you have this on alert I hope you enjoy it.**

**To the general crowd: feel free to step up any time and make me even happier.**

**A/N: "Tone Poem" is back, this time I'm actually using the lyrics of this song by Toyah.**

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Sailing away like a  
Ship in the night on  
A stormy and evergreen sea

He stands still and yet he doesn't. Something is moving. Slowly he remembers. A motion he has been missing, but something is not right. The floor, wooden planks, moving beneath him, up and down, wave after wave. He knows the feeling often lingers on for days. But not for years. This floor should not be moving beneath him, yet it does.

He hears the water, surging against the floor from below, gushing against the walls, dripping in from the windowsills. This place isn't a ship, this apartment wasn't built to sail. In pure denial he watches the sea gathering towards him, foaming in small ripples. The water rises around him. For a moment he floats, then the water rises inside of him, filling this vessel that is his body until it tips over and sinks down to those wooden planks.

Gasping he wakes, on the floor. Still swaying he pushes himself up, comes eye to eye with two glasses on the table. A small residue of red wine in either one. She was here, how could he let her go? Or did he? He takes the glasses to the sink, lets water run into them. It continues dripping, filling them more than he wanted to. He remembers the water clock, quickly pulls them away. Drops are ticking on the metal. He places a cloth under the tab to soften their fall.

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People drip into the flowing mass, from shop entrances and office doors. They wind their way through the multitude, carefully avoiding the touch of strangers, almost touching each other. Mac follows Stella's steps; she seems to be dancing, perfectly aware of the rhythm of the crowd. She flows along, catching him in her wake. Water from above joins the movement, umbrellas twist open. Drops are pearling through her curls, clinging to the ends before they dance into the air as she shakes her head.

She flicks her curls through the air, more pearls escape and flatten, losing life as they hit the table. She wraps her fingers around the mug before her and looks outside. He follows her glance. The street has emptied. The stream of people has been replaced by one of water, only an occasional umbrella sailing across the grey sea. She gazes at a flowerpot quickly filling to the brim. She watches uneven lines wriggle across the new surface, coming to life with the touch of every new drop. He sees her smile reflected in it.

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Closing my eyes on  
The birth of a sunset  
My spirit is wandering free

Water crystallizes around him, waves of sand crash over him. He turns, his eyes searching for land while he's standing on it. Sand, building up in giant waves, liquid stone he's sinking into. He wishes for the stars so he can find himself. But only the sand coruscates. Only the sun is burning down on him, condensing his body. Light trickling down into the ripples running across the waves around him.

Casting shadows. He can't avoid them. Wherever he turns, his shadow is before him. It stretches over the sand, reaching out grey spiny fingers to fall on something hidden amongst glistening grains. The shadow-fingers dig it out, a skeleton of a baseball. They move on to another object caught in the sand, then another and another. Unable to stop, remains of the stations of his life are unearthed. One more to come the shadow of his head falls on a skull.

He jerks back to reality, blinking fiercely. Why is there sun in his apartment? And since there is, why isn't it everywhere? He blinks again, the shadow of a construction worker falling on him. He frowns at the man who is waving at him with a broad grin. He yanks himself off the couch and marches towards the window. The blinds come down with a ripping noise and hang broken-winged. But who has opened them? He looks around. She must have been here; he can feel her in the air.

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The sun draws people from the buildings like drops of water from the sea. The throng is bubbling up and down the streets. She swirls through the sun and the shadows, a quick rhythm of light and dark dancing over her. Again he falls in with the beat of her steps, just a hairsbreadth away he feels the warmth radiating from her skin. The sun glimmers in her hair like droplets of gold.

In a metal chair she leans back with her eyes closed, letting the sun caress her face. He watches tiny shadows flit across her, a humming in the air. Taller shadows languidly move around them, silently reminding them of the passage of time. She runs her fingers through her curls in half a daze and he watches them spin to life under her touch. Without opening her eyes she pulls her chair back when his shadow falls on her face. The sun reflects the smile from her face onto his.

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Dreams are the link  
Between living and dying  
Where hidden emotions appear

He stands in a dwindling darkness. A tiny flame appears to be approaching, flickering in the wind of its own motion. Shadows creep back into their corners, huddle together for fear of the light. He follows them with his eyes, unable to look at the bright flame. But it stretches into the corners; the shadows cower and shriek, they dissolve into her light.

She holds the candle, she is the flame. She draws his eyes to her. He watches her dance on the wick, to the rhythm of his heart. Twisting and twining, living of the wax beneath her feet, kicking up hissing bubbles with her steps. Solid to liquid to gas, dancing around and around, spiraling down. "This flame" she says, "is your life." – "When I die" the flame says, "you die."

The darkness sputters and dies. His eyes are open on a dim light, a still light. He gazes about wearily. His eyes fall on a candle he doesn't remember having. Who bought it? Who lit it, and who snuffed it before it could burn down? He takes the candle into his hands, the wax around the top is still warm. He feels her touch in it. A little shape falls off and breaks its wings hitting the table.

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The sound of steps is hushed by the twilight, gently lapping against the shore of buildings. Quietly gatherings of people are floating along the streets in a dark waltz. Again he allows her to lead this dance and like a guiding flame she glides around him, glittering here and there to avoid unwatchful others. Streetlights wash a warm glow in and out of her curls at a slow pace.

A movement draws her attention to the candle. The wick unfolds inside the flame, curls and snaps. Heat lifts it into the air for the ghost of a flight. She runs a finger along the side of the candle. Her gaze is empty only to those who don't know her. Two fingers on the candle, caressing the soft wax, gathering it up. Her hand leaves the candle, withdraws into a dimmer light. He sees her hands move, fingers curl, dancing in tiny steps to the melody of her thoughts. Fingers rest, hands unfold, a pearly butterfly sits on her skin. She sends him a smile to carry it on an imaginary flight.

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The spirits awareness  
Of solitude, lust,  
Tranquility, tension and fear

He hears something coming towards him, from behind. A sound like a bird of prey, swooping on him. Instincts throw up his arms over his head as he cowers on the ground. He looks around, sees nothing, only a continuous rattling, grinding, grating – of something approaching. Machinery, he thinks. The constant clanging of things in motion. Steam hissing, or the wind beneath some wings. Clockwork rolls closer, pendulums beating through the air to keep it moving. It is coming straight at him.

His dream reverberates. He wakes to the clamor of the construction site machines. It could be time for breakfast. He makes coffee, recoiling from the sight and sound of the pot filling drop after drop. He pours two cups and takes them to his bedroom.


	5. Countdown

**I can't say it often enough: thank you for the wonderful reviews, I really love getting them. I like to hear (or read) what my readers think. And as usual here's my call to the general crowd: feel free to join in any time!**

**After I had so much fun confusing you with the last chapter things might become a little clearer now. And anybody who guesses correctly who the man in Mac's office is gets a muffin. Just let me know your preferred taste!**

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He sips the coffee slowly, letting it trickle down his throat and warm his body like her fingers could. He gazes at the other coffee cup, still full, and waits. Hopes for a movement behind him, but she lies still. Shadows fill the room with more life. He stares them down. Attention, marine! He tries, but he fails, can't keep his thoughts still or his hands, not anymore.

He puts his cup down with trembling hands. He longs for her touch to still them, to calm him down. In the lingering silence he turns around to finally accept what he has suspected all along: that she's not there. He takes the second coffee cup and drinks the now cold and bitter blackness, feels it refuel his loneliness.

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She raises her arms over her head against the crackling white. Pearls shoot from the sky, tear down leaves, bounce against cars, roll along the pavement, clicking like marbles. Shivering she leans into a doorway to be partly protected. She hears a car coming to a skidding halt behind her, splashing water washes some pearls up the grey shore, closer to her.

A soft smack, the welcoming sound of a door opening. She turns around and skips through the mass of white gravel the pavement is now covered with. He greets her with a smile and a cup of coffee. She folds herself into the seat, knees pulled up. He stops the engine and wraps a blanket around her. She sips the warm liquid, the next breath branching warmly into her chest. They sit and watch, lightning tearing through the sky, thunder rolling through the earth.

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He wonders why he hasn't fallen like so many others. His heart beats hard in his chest. The only clock he could not get rid of. And now it's feeding the passing of his time, the enemy inside. This knot of thoughts having taken on a life of its own is drawing energy from him, dissolving his memories, stealing his dreams, replacing them with things that never were.

He has been taught to fight, prepared to die. But what is coming at him now he doesn't understand, this growing change inside of him. He has tried to lock it out, tried to lock himself in, tried above all to ignore it. But he feels it eating at his thoughts, reducing him gradually. And he doesn't know which way to go. All he can hold on to is her.

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They are reflected in the glass, her sitting on the edge of his desk, him twisting a pen through his fingers. Greyish steam is curling from two cups. She lets her thoughts glide along with the vapor. He's hypnotizing himself staring at the spinning pen. Unvoiced their thoughts hang like specters in the still air. Knowing that words are lead they choose not to speak.

They look at each other; study the lines the day has carved into them. A day they don't really want to talk about they try to relax into the other's silence. He moves closer to the desk, towards the side she's sitting on. They reach for the tea at the same time; a smile breaks through the clouds.

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He looks at the shadows gathering in the corners. They don't dare come at him yet. But he thinks he can hear them whisper, planning their next attack. They know that she's not here. And so does he. He needs her light to shoo them away. He needs her to hold on to him, to help him through this fight.

Silhouettes stand in the air and gather towards him. But they are only the harbingers of darkness. A darkness he has seen so many others fall into; has sent many into himself. And he remembers them; every single one of them. He needs her light. He knows he can't shun the dark, but he can't see where to go.

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They stroll through the almost empty hallway, a little bit of time on their hands. Their steps resound from the walls. It's like a memory of where they have turned; the air holding on to their footprints. The thousand times they have walked or run here have accumulated to a feeling of being at home.

She feels an intrusion in their shared solitude. She turns to him; a shadow falls over her face, not cast by a light. "Mac Taylor!" He recognizes the voice; it grinds through his ears like sand. The shadow grows and extends on to his face. She shrugs, tries to encourage him with a lopsided smile before she turns to leave.

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Traffic is in a deadlock. She parks the car somewhere around the block and walks. The house she finally approaches is shrinking into the shadows of a scaffold, like a convict awaiting execution. The machines of the construction site shower her with a cacophony of clanking and rattling. She clasps her hands over her ears to shield them from the downpour of noises.

Inside sounds are throbbing through the veins of the building. The walls shiver, windows whisper in voices high-pitched with fear. She searches for a number to the name, her destination, and through the continuous echoes makes her way to the elevator. In the overloaded atmosphere she's unaware of an extra shadow stealing closer, following her steps.

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A piercing silence hangs in the room. But Mac has no intention to end it. He takes his time to sort through the things on his desk. He knows he's testing the man's patience. And he knows he can handle it. Unspoken words shake the air. The motion seems to be heating up the room. He just looks at the man. He has learnt from Stella.

And he believes that the one to start the conversation should be the one wanting something. But the air appears to be getting so thick no words can pass through. He finds it increasingly hard to suppress a grin, only the fact that he is thoroughly annoyed by the presence of this man helps. He is saved by the bell, ringing from the man's pocket, calling him elsewhere.

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His heart skips a couple of beats when he sees her, winning him time. Suddenly silhouettes seem to side with him. He slides through them unseen, hiding in the shadows cast by all the noises. He slips into the elevator just before the doors close. She smiles at him politely, he nods nervously. Fate has them go to the same floor, counting up, not down, he reminds himself.

He watches her down the corridor, his door open, ready for her return. The rapping of her knuckles on some other door is lost amongst the racket filling the house with dread. A dread he doesn't feel anymore. She comes back towards him, eyebrows raised questioningly. Does she remember him? He swirls her inside before she has time to guess anything. He follows a dull bang with his eyes, sees he has succeeded to throw her weapon on the floor.

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No matter how glad Mac is the man has left, unexpectedly he feels alone. He knows Stella has left the building, has gone her way. Suddenly he wishes he hadn't marked time rearranging his desk. Somehow he has gotten used to her bringing that touch of chaos into his life and now he has removed the signs of her presence.

Looking out the window he recalls the days, realizes that he has spent more and more time with her. Rain or shine; he smiles at the phrase. Yes, she can rain at him, but usually she makes him shine. It's such a little thing she's gone out to settle but he finds he's looking forward to her coming back.

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He feels her heart beating fast, resonating, rushing time. He has to quieten it if he wants to keep her. He presses himself against the hissing and scratching whirlwind her body has turned into. His hand finds her throat. He holds his breath, holding her. He feels her heart accelerating yet, beating against the obstruction, waves of blood trying to eat their way through. A pounding, shuddering her body against his.

Her heart hammers like fists against the door. But there are none, nobody coming to find her, nobody coming to help. Greedy waves of nothing come rolling against her. Her body refuses to heed her determination to fight. Waves crumble the sand of her thoughts, wash holes into her consciousness. Her fingers curl against his cheek, futile, unable to exert any force. Her hand drops, the momentum causing her arm to swing at her side, back and forth, like a pendulum.


	6. Spirit rising

**I'm beginning to feel repetitive about this, but I just have to say it again: thank you so much for the wonderful reviews you sent me. I loved them, I keep rereading them, I've become addicted and want more ;)**

**Disclaimer: oh, and the mystery guy ****from Mac's office, whose identity is revealed in this chapter, doesn't belong to me either. Believe me, if he did, I'd send him to the moon right after I've used him here.**

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The shudders are ebbing away. He feels her body sag against his. He takes a deep and measured breath. Her chin comes to rest on his shoulder. Cautiously he shifts her weight to fold his arms around her. Curls tenderly brush over his face, promising peace. Just holding her, finally. He feels her soft skin cool against his.

Carefully he runs his fingers over her back, pulls her a little closer and slightly up into the air. On tiptoe she's leaning into him, a porcelain ballerina. He imagines inertia to be her movement, the noises to be their music. He turns, leading her along. He gathers her up into his arms to carry her where she now belongs. He smiles at the shadows that are looking on.

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All of a sudden Mac is overcome by a sinking feeling. Somehow it doesn't seem to have anything to do with the elevator he just entered beginning to move upwards. The wrong direction, he realizes too late. So lost in his thoughts he missed checking the indicating arrow. No problem, he tells himself. It will go back down eventually.

And it does, but this feeling, it's still there, and physics tell him it should be reversed. He catches himself wanting to call Stella. He pulls out his cell, NO SERVICE the screen spells out at him. With a sigh he returns the useless phone to his pocket. He almost chuckles at himself; normally he isn't the kind of person to be freaked out by a feeling.

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He lets her body sink into the sheets. Curls spill around her head. He follows the curves of her lashes, lying on her face like dark smiles. He takes her hands into his, plays with her fingers. They yield to every movement he makes. He imagines them flicking away the shadows. He puts her hands down again, crossed over her chest.

Her lips are frozen like her smile on the picture was. He runs his fingers along her strong cheekbones and into the hollow of her eyes, holds her face between his hands and just looks, forgets for how long. He lies down next to her, nesting his head in her curls, continues touching her stillness with his eyes. He's coming to rest, just like her.

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And yet, in the anonymity of the crowding elevator Mac feels shadows gathering. He pulls out his cell again, still the same message. The elevator seems to be taking forever, he considers just getting out on the next floor and taking the stairs. The mood with which he has left his office after remembering some of those moments with Stella is quickly ebbing away.

The tone of the conversations he's forced to listen to reminds him of the talk he's just avoided, dampens whatever was left of his good mood. And who'd be better to lift him again than Stella. He hazards another glance at his cell, but he realizes he shouldn't have. The message that seems to be frozen to the screen deals his temper the death blow.

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She's floating through numbness, snatches of thoughts like driftwood around her. She clings to them, claws her way back to the shore, back to consciousness. She escapes the drizzle of a bad dream and wakes to the downpour of a worse reality. She's face to face with those granite eyes, dark grey like clouds before a storm.

Charily she investigates her body, aware that he's watching her. She feels soreness in her hands, in her feet. Cutting, tightening when she tries to move them. Nothing covering her mouth. Nothing is needed, the blare from outside is gagging her. Still she tests her voice. She's sure he can hear her. And there is a lot she has to say.

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Mac is sorely frustrated when he finally escapes the confinement of the elevator, of all possible people having Gerrard in his wake. How this man was able to move through the building faster than him is a mystery. It looks like he's going to have that conversation after all, if it can be called a conversation. He doesn't really see why he should add anything to it.

But he turns around to face the man. As he has suspected, there isn't really much to say, or nothing that matters. Just the usual political cat-cradle to get tripped up in. He takes the time Gerrard needs to speak to study this man before him who, even when his mouth moves, appears to him to be as full of life as a rock.

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He listens to her but he doesn't feel the need to talk. Questions he chooses not to answer. He knows his choice was right, then why should he explain himself. True, she's a detective; she would want to know his motivation. Maybe he will tell her later. For the moment he's content listening to her voice, keeping the shadows at bay.

She ends her monologue, turns away from him. She studies her surroundings, studies her options. She's weighed down by the barrenness of the room she finds herself in. Just the metal bed her feet are tied to and a wardrobe that looks empty even from the outside. All possible color seems to have died from lack of light.

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As soon as Mac possibly can he makes his escape. It's certainly not politeness holding him back, just the realization that putting Gerrard off doesn't make it easier to deal with him. But he's longing for Stella's company even more, encouraging him to play the game, reminding him maybe that last time he did enjoy it.

His cell is in his hand again. The message has disappeared from the screen. No time to rejoice though. Everything has disappeared from the screen. It has gone black; the batteries have died on him. He's grinding his teeth. One of those days. But it could be worse, he thinks, it's just one of those days. Stella would laugh if she saw him like that.

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Shadows sneak from the corners. They crawl over the carpet, approaching him. He looks at them, looks at her. Nothing happens; shadows continue to stretch towards him. His eyes plead with her. Why doesn't she help him? Doesn't she understand? He wonders if he should have answered some of her questions after all but it's too late.

A light burns through his mind; a shadow follows, twisting around him. He jumps at her. She gasps under his weight and his fingers digging into her. He yells, furiously, lifting her, shaking her. She cries out in pain, surroundings zigzagging before her eyes. He lashes out at the shadows, hitting her again and again. He doesn't realize she has stopped screaming.


	7. Fate or fury

**T****hank you so much for the wonderful reviews you sent me. Feel free to add more, even if you've joined late. Though my style at times might suggest otherwise, I don't bite! ;) You can also go back and let me know what you thought of the other chapters or the overall development. All comments are appreciated; I love to know what my readers think and it helps me to improve my writing. I do hope you're enjoying this. Again a big THANK YOU to anyone who has picked this as a favorite story.**

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Fists fall, shadows flinch playfully, pretending to be frightened away. He shakes in his own storm. Shadows are swirling around him. Blood on his hands shrieks at him. He doesn't see. He doesn't hear. He falls without landing. Blood is brushed into his hair. His fingers claw at his skull, try to dig into his brain to pull the shadows out.

The shadows are satisfied, they allow the light to return little by little. No quick flashes, a gradual dawning. Slowly, he remembers where he is, who he is. He realizes what he has done, but too late. The shadows laugh at him. He tells her he's sorry, but she doesn't listen. She can't. He shudders at the shadow she's become, lying there beneath him; he shudders at the man he's become.

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Mac eyes the elevator doors suspiciously. Maybe he should take the stairs, but maybe he's just being silly. He rubs his forehead. Something is creeping around in there, something his rational mind shies away from. He tries to concentrate on the file he's holding, tries to make it to the end of his shift.

The doors gape, he steps in, pleasantly surprised by the emptiness of the cabin. Doors close again, he chooses to ignore the hollow sound announcing a coming void, decides that his mood is beginning to play tricks on him. But something is gathering, like flies around decay his thoughts circle. He's getting angry with himself.

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Pearls of blood sit on her lips like dewdrops on a fading rose. He gathers them with his fingers, inspecting every single one of them, tasting their salt with his tongue. His thoughts churn, probing the dark matter knotting inside of him. "What do you want?" she had asked him. It was the one question he should have answered.

He recalls the sound of her voice. The words she said hadn't really mattered, but if she could swear at the shadows as she had at him. Again he runs his eyes over her face, watches bruises flowering. His fingers reach out, tracing the edges of their slow bloom. He sits back, becomes motionless like her.

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Suddenly it seems too soon the elevator stops again and the doors open. Mac pretends to be absorbed in the report he's reading, but he knows who has entered. The doors closing again slice through him like a scaffold. His thoughts begin to lose themselves in the dark recesses of a headache building up.

"Another day in paradise." Stella had once said to him. He doesn't remember the occasion but he could use that touch of sarcasm right now. Hasn't he had enough of that man for one day?

"Working on anything I should know about?" Gerrard asks with a nasty wink in his voice.

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He smiles at seeing her stir and wake. She claws at him with her eyes. The noises outside have died but so has her voice. She manages a hoarse growl. It turns into a grating cough. He pulls her up into his arms; she tries to push him away; hands, head, face, throat – everything hurting. But she wants no comfort from him.

"Who are you?" she had asked him before. But it doesn't matter, not anymore. He's no longer the person who had been given his name. The only question that still matters is "why?"

And finally he tells her, tells her of the shadows that have been haunting him. He tells her of the lump that had been diagnosed after he broke down during that parade, that conglomeration of darkness having built up in his brain.

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Out of nowhere the elevator comes to a grinding halt, almost knocking them off their feet. Mac looks up in surprise, just in time to see the cabin being swallowed by darkness. He hears muffled swearing that makes him grin quite in spite of himself. He hides it in the lingering darkness, emergency lights blinking, struggling to wake and do their job.

In the staccato light Gerrard's movements are stilled, splintered, as he pushes himself up again along the wall. In the flickering dusk Mac imagines the other man is trying to figure out a way to blame him for this event. The air seems to be holding its breath, readying itself for the outburst.

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Her hands are bound palms facing outwards. No chance to reach the ties with her fingers, no matter how she curls and twists them. She tries to move her hands upwards, towards her mouth. But he must have expected that too. The grip on her wrists only tightens. She knows it's useless because he makes no attempt to stop her.

But with determination she pulls, bends and wriggles her hands, seething with the red-hot pain that shoots through her. Flames run from her hands and wrists into her head. She uses them to fuel her anger. Grinding her teeth as if she could bite into the ties, cutting deeper and deeper into herself. With excruciating slowness her right hand comes around. Tingling fingers find the ties. She digs her nails into the hard and cold material, starts tearing and ripping, fingers slipping on her own blood.

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Nothing happens. No movement is made. The lights come to rest. Looks freeze through the air. Stillness, killing time. Two bodies at rest, potential energy pinning them to the floor. Waiting, waiting to be released. But the only thing released is the fury of thoughts. Unvoiced they screech and howl through brains.

Having read the report a hundred times the words are dancing before his eyes. The dim light is beginning to hurt him. Gerrard has blended into the immobility of the wall. Nothing left to distract him, not even dust dancing in the air. Mac seeks refuge in thoughts of Stella, using the memory of her sparkling eyes to ban the furies.

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He watches her. He sees her hands flutter like broken wings, blood streaked feathers. He had always known that she's a fighter. But why isn't she willing to fight for him? Shadows have slipped into him. He sees her hissing and thrashing at them as they become apparent in his eyes. But the shadows won't shift, they have taken him over.

He realizes she can not help him, not in the way he had hoped. She shivers, watching him turn into a sculpture, his frozen heart shining through those granite eyes. Tremors are tearing at her shackles, everything mobilizing to free herself. She sees he has come to his conclusion. There is only one path left for them to take.


	8. Clock of my heart

**Again I loved all the wonderful reviews I've been getting, thank you so much for taking the time. And I can honestly say that this story wouldn't be where it is without you. Yet another big THANK YOU to those who have picked this as a favorite.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hawkes either, just in case anybody thought so.**

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He remains stock-still, the last of his soul lies covered with black frost in his eyes. Shadows have blended into him, leaving no room for light, no room for hope other than that she will show him the way. Further shadows trying to approach him are deflected by his hardness. They fall onto her, rubbing their hands. They have won two.

She's almost frozen under the coldness of his stare, realizing that it's no longer a question of 'if' but only of 'how'. Trembling hands work against her undying will to free herself. She tries to stretch the sneaking numbness out of her fingers, twists them again and again, almost hoping for the return of pain.

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Increasing viscosity of the air folds them into a standstill, molecules trembling only with the heat of their thoughts. Stranded as they are, two cliffs face to face, unable even to move their eyes away from each other, broken waves trailing off jadedly around their feet. The air stagnates with their continued silence.

A faint sound might be imagined somewhere in the distance, like the twanging of a bow being drawn. Mac's hearing jumps to the distraction, gathers meaning from it. He readies himself, muscles flexing. With the dimmest hint of movement he resonates and shoots through the doors as soon as they open, uncaring for the man and the dignity he has left behind.

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Tears of pain begin to well up in her eyes, not enough though to extinguish the smoldering of her nerves, and she's glad of it. She's clenching her teeth into her lips to distract her mind. She welcomes the pain, but not where it is, tendons stretched to breaking point, stiffening her fingers.

Still he makes no move to stop her, but she refuses to let her hope become as silent. Nails claw through the air again and again, finally meeting resistance. Lacerating, wrenching, slipping and cracking in the trap. She jerks her fingertips away from the clasp, pulling until she feels fragments of her nails being ripped away.

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Mac zips through the hallway, the pent-up energy finally released. The door flies open before him; vibrates on its hinges in offended outrage. He leaps for his desk and the cell reloading on it. It flips open with a stifled yawn; the screen too takes time to wake up. His hand grabs for the other phone sitting on his desk.

He closes his eyes, counting the rings sent into the distance. He longs to hear her voice, hear her laugh at him because he has thought himself into a frenzy. He does hear her voice, recorded, her name echoing in the hollows of the line. A bitter laugh escapes his lips, seems to crash on the floor.

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Somewhere within the expanse of renewed noises from outside there is a jingle gathering strength. Stella pricks her ears at what sounds familiar. She dares a glance at her captor. Does he hear it too? Does he know what it means? He lifts his head, gets up and moves out of sight, towards the tune that has been calling her. Her heart sinks.

His fingers graze through all the medicines he has stored, picking out one. He only glances at the leaflet. The disease it had been prescribed against has become secondary. Shadows watch a speck of memory spiral into place. He sees a certain irony in the fact that in one of the languages he has learnt, the name of the flower the drug is derived from is 'timeless'.

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Mac zigzags through his office, unable to concentrate on work, following the course of his thoughts. Shouldn't Stella be answering her cell where she is now? He can't think of any good reason why she would not. His rationality is drowned in the eddying mass of nagging sensations that something is wrong.

He answers the incoming call before his cell has a chance to break into ringing, but it's not her. He gathers what the turmoil has left of his manners and hastens the conversation to an end. He sends out another set of rings, again is greeted only by her voicemail. His hand clasps white around the cell. He is sure now.

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Again a melody tiptoes through the other noises. Stella closes her eyes to concentrate fully on the sound, to reach out to the person she hopes is causing it. She doesn't want to see that man get up again and take her hopes with him. But she feels his weight shifting from the bed, one moving up, one sinking down.

He takes his uniform from the wardrobe. Something inside of him longs to show the world who he once was, longs to leave a memory behind. But he doesn't dare try and see if it still fits. He hangs it over the door where it swings. He steadies his hand, it's not important anymore. Instead, he watches the movement fade slowly.

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Mac digs for another number stored in his cell. The instant reply does not relieve him. "Hawkes," he barks into the innocent phone and at the innocent man, "I need a location on Stella's cell, now!" He hates himself for almost stumbling over the words, feeling that every further second that is lost could be the last drop.

"Why?" Hawkes asks. It's rather more of a rhetorical question; basing guesses on the concern ringing through Mac's voice he's already on it and praying that his search will end somewhere close. He's ticking off an imaginary rosary as lines whiz across the screen. But his prayers die away unheard in the distance he sees gaping on the map displayed before him.

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He comes from the kitchen, thinking that he finally has a valid reason to bring two glasses. As he walks the water swirls in vicious circles inside, unable to escape. He splits the pills into two piles of slightly unequal size. He takes his share, washing down several with every mouthful of water. It occurs to him that it might be better to have her take the pills without any liquid.

He forces her mouth open. She yields only to be able to bite him, having him at last close enough to her. He yelps, grabs her harder. She struggles to push him back, twisting her face away from him, pressing her lips tightly shut. To no avail. The substance is driven into her mouth. She tries to spit it out but his hand seals her lips, seals her fate.


	9. Timeless

**My goodness, thank you so much for the wonderful reviews, the nominations and everything! I'm overwhelme****d, I'm flattered, I'm… lost for words, awk! THANK YOU SO MUCH, I love you guys!**

**Feel free to add more; whenever you happen to be reading this, I love surprises ;)**

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The fire she has been building up inside escapes through her eyes. It doesn't succeed to melt him. Her tongue is struggling against the powdery mass, trying to force it anywhere else but down. It gathers saliva, slips from her control. He doesn't let go of her until he's sure she has swallowed repeatedly.

He lies down next to her again, holding her chin so she looks at him, wrapping her into his arms. She wriggles away from him, wrestles her shoulders against his, inching around to avoid his sight, twisted back again. She throws her whole weight into her head, knocking it into him. He clenches his fingers into her.

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No words are exchanged. Two pairs of eyes are fixed on the road extending before them. Hawkes scoots through the traffic at highest possible speed. Still it seems to take an eternity for people and houses to zoom by. Eternity, the word resounds ominously in Mac's mind. Seconds of the rest of his life stretching infinitely in the possibility of emptiness before him.

If only the streets were as empty. The radio clears its throat with a crackle. A cold voice announces an accident on the street ahead, a thrombosis in the city's veins, deadlock overcoming its bloodstream. Just one look is exchanged, no words needed. The car swerves towards the curb with a terrified scream. They run.

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Her mouth is on fire. What she has tried to avoid before is becoming increasingly difficult. Every mouthful clings to the back of her throat, digging in painfully as she swallows. Sickness wrings through her body, too late in trying to force out again the substance that is already at destructive work in her system.

A different hand, not his, seizes her body. She shakes violently in its grip. Tight knots of pain manifest in every part of her. Uncontrollably her hands quiver, shockwaves making it impossible to force her fingers to follow the unceasing dictate of her will. She feels her blood rushing, hastening through the vessels containing it, harder and harder.

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The house they finally approach ducks under the scaffold like a wild animal kept in too small a cage, eyes closed with resignation. Its hopes lost only noises are left to rattle at the metal grid. No looks exchanged they part. Mac, already inside, feels the house relax into the falling silence Hawkes has enforced. A silence he both welcomes and fears.

Floors, corridors, doors hasten past them. Cell in Mac's hand they speed along, ringing sent out – her voicemail – call ended. Again and again. Ears trained on the sound they long to hear but don't. Yet another hit of that button – voicemail, straight. A crash tears through the air. They rush on, none looking back at Mac's cell, lying splintered on the ground, wiry innards spilling out.

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The melody is spinning in her head, she's no longer sure she really hears it. Her heart tries to keep up with the excitation of her thoughts, the time slipping, leaving her breathless. She feels her arms lying heavily on her chest, too heavy to lift them with her breath. His arms too heavy around her to twist out of them.

Head bent away from him, she closes her eyes. This room is not the last thing she wants to see. She evokes a memory. Mac, coming for her. She tries to hold on to that thought but like a drop of water in a storm it escapes her. Tumbling over others, like grains of sand in an hour-glass, they all slip away, down into the gaping darkness.

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Doors are trembling, frightened into submission by pounding fists. No one answers their desperate calls. No one can hear them. The house abandoned by all who could, left at the mercy of the construction site. Now at the mercy of a man looking for the woman who means most to him, running down doors along the way.

What if Stella is no longer where her cell is? What if they can not find her? What if they find her too late? The thoughts tornado through Mac's mind, sucking at his existence. It can not be. It must not be. He runs from his thoughts, hurtling himself towards the next door. He crashes through it, falling into emptiness.

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Without time no motion is possible. Silence is all that is left. Not one sound dares send out its waves. Dust that had been scintillating in the air, shivering in sympathy, sinks to the ground, unable to look on. The air holds its breath. Everything waits, only seconds tick on relentlessly, ignorant of the greater time that has stopped around them.

Another door falling is unheard inside. Eyes scan the dusk, land on a treacherous cell hiding in a darker corner, having fallen in with the surrounding silence. And a weapon, useless without fingers to pull the trigger. They don't dare feel relief, dash onwards into the grey hush of the room ahead.

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Mac sails towards where he sees Stella stretched out, sinks onto his knees next to her stillness, holding his breath. He sees her hands resting on her chest like a pair of withered lilies, wrapped in her blood. Curls floating on frozen-white waves of fabric. Eyes closed. Stilled in the grasp of someone he doesn't know and doesn't care to know.

He hardly dares touch her for fear of shattering what little is left. Her hands are as cold as the one around his heart. Hawkes is on the other side of the bed, cell and a pillbox in his hand, rattling off matter-of-fact medical terms in no such voice. In Mac's mind Hawkes' words condense into only one meaning: that there is still a reason to say them.

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Her hands and wrists are now bound in white, resting individually on the sheets. Her head is tilted towards him, eyes ready to fall on him when she opens them. He lets his hands rest on her arm, her shoulder, keeping the warmth inside her. Her breath, assisted but steady, is a warm breeze on his face, blowing away the clouds.

There is a clock in the room. He doesn't need to look at it. Every beat of her heart tells him eternity hasn't begun yet.


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